Late winter in Dallas, a city that wants to pretend that it's still 1984, and that the oil will never stop flowing. With all its ugly angular buildings that send sunlight out in every direction, but mostly directly into your eyes. A city that desperately wants to ignore all those cool, skinny kids with their too-tight jeans and their little flannel shirts all scuttling around the periphery. Six Flags and six hundred convenience stores. Hard to get a fix on the weird, meaty sadness you feel when you're ten miles out of town and you see a herd of alpacas calmly wandering the perimeter of a manmade lake in the middle of a subdivision. Steak houses the size of churches and churches the size of soccer stadiums. East of the city, just outside Canton, you pass a pasture where a dozen camels sit calmly, being slowly covered up with snow. There is no way for anyone to explain to them just exactly what is happening.
"Like most North Americans of his generation, he tends to know way less about why he feels certain ways about the objects and pursuits he's devoted to than he does about the objects and pursuits themselves. It's hard to say for sure whether this is even exceptionally bad, this tendency."